By the end of the day on Monday, I was restless in my own skin. I had gone about my day the way I always did: seeing clients, writing emails and reports, eating lunch at my desk. If I still had sore muscles and chafed skin from Saturday night, well, I was a grownup and could ignore them. I had work to do, after all.

Except my focus kept slipping. I’d be writing an email and I’d picture the tip of Jace’s cock sliding into my mouth, the way he’d said my name. I’d be sipping my afternoon cup of tea and I’d hear him say I knew you’d fuck like this in my ear. It was a movie that played over and over in my head, pleasant and distracting and worrisome at the same time. I wanted to see Jace, and I was terrified of seeing Jace. What was supposed to happen now?

We’re a thing, Jace said in my ear. No more talking.

It sounded so simple. But if I could be an Olympic champion at any sport, it would be at overthinking things. This was the same office I’d been in on Friday, and I was doing the same routine. I looked the same, dressed the same, but I was a different person, and I wasn’t entirely sure how.

I needed to talk to someone.

Not Jace, of course. Someone I could talk to about Jace. I didn’t have any close female friends, something I never took the time to examine too closely. Too busy was my usual excuse. The girls I’d known at my private high school had all gone their separate ways as soon as we graduated, and my college acquaintances had spread around the country, going where the jobs were. Most of them were, I assumed, married by now and maybe even mothers. Which still left me no one to talk to.

My mother wasn’t an option—I’d never dished to my mother about my love life, and I wasn’t going to start now. I thought about Emily, the pretty blonde who was Luke Riggs’ adored girlfriend, very briefly, but I couldn’t quite get up the nerve to track her down. It would seem stalkery and weird.

At four-thirty, with my appointments done for the day, I walked down the hall to see Catherine Fox, one of the other counselors in the office. Catherine was in her thirties, and she was one of the best counselors we had on staff—smart, patient, straightforward, kind and authoritative at the same time. I admired her, and in lieu of friendship, that would have to do.

Her office door was open, and she saw me approach. “Tara,” she said, taking off her glasses as she looked up from her computer. “Nice to see you.”

I closed the door behind me. “Do you have a free counseling slot?”

“My four-thirty cancelled, so you’re in luck. Do you have a referral for me?”

“Sort of,” I said. “The patient is me.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. It wasn’t unheard of, of course, for counselors to need counseling—we’re human, just like everyone else. But I’d never asked before. Still, Catherine took it in stride.

“Have a seat,” she said.

I sat down in the chair across from her. It was crazy déjà vu, being the patient in this situation. I’d been on her side of the desk hundreds of times but never on this side at all.

“What can I help you with?” Catherine said.

I blew out a breath. If my clients could do this, then so could I. “This needs to stay confidential,” I said.

“Of course.”

“I’m seeing someone new.”

Catherine nodded encouragingly, knowing there was more.

“He’s a former client,” I said. Her eyebrows rose again, so I clarified, “Our sessions were finished, and my report was written. We didn’t have a professional relationship. But I saw him again, and now we have a personal one.”

It reduced it to such simple terms, the relationship between Jace and me. The crazy way we’d turned each other’s lives upside down.

“Still, it’s unusual, to say the least,” Catherine said, prodding me along. “This man must be very important to you.”

I looked at her—her neat dark bob streaked with gray, her professional blouse and blazer—and then looked away, at the wall, at nothing. I was starting to understand how Jace had felt in this chair, talking about things that were secret and personal. “He is,” I said. “Or he could be. I know you know the kind of clients I see, but Jace is different. He’s smart, and he’s…” A con. A confidential informant. A thief. A man who reads Dostoevsky. A virgin, until I got my hands on him. Oh, and he’s a natural genius at sex, and I’ve never come like that in my life. “He’s complex,” I finished lamely. “He’s interesting. Fascinating.”

Catherine leaned forward in her chair and put her chin in her hand, listening to me. It was an un-counselor-like gesture. “Tara, you’re smitten,” she said.

“Maybe.” No, it was time for the truth. “Okay, I am.”

“That’s wonderful. So why are you here?”

God, this was hard. “I’m here because I’m confused,” I said. “I’ve never crossed the line with a client, a former client, before. It feels risky. And my last relationship ended eight months ago.”

“You were engaged, weren’t you?” Catherine asked. Office gossip was as reliable as ever, obviously.

“We were. I broke it off. But he was a cop on the Westlake PD. And Jace just finished doing time. He knows I was engaged, but he doesn’t know who I was engaged to.”

Catherine still had her chin in her hand. “And you haven’t told him yet.”

I pressed my palms together in my lap, twisted my fingers. “This is too new. Jace won’t like it—I know he won’t. I don’t really know how he’ll react. But with the way I feel, I can’t go further without telling him.”

“That’s a dilemma,” Catherine said. “You want to hear something?”

I blinked at her. “Um, sure.”

“One of my clients did a four-year stretch. She got out two years ago. She lost custody of her kids, and she hasn’t gotten it back, and it depresses her. She’s got a lot of problems—I won’t get into it—but she’s busting her ass to overcome them so she has a shot at getting her kids back. Last week she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Stage three.”

“Oh my god,” I said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“She came in here this morning and talked about what she wishes she would have done. About the time she wasted doing stupid things that made her lose her kids when she had no idea her time was so short. ‘None of it was important,’ she said to me, ‘none of it, I know that now, and now that chance is gone.’ I’ve worked with you for three years, Tara, and I’ve never seen you look like you do right now. All tied up in knots, like something actually matters.”

I sat speechless.

“You’re one of the most unruffled, self-contained women I’ve ever met,” Catherine said. “Even when you were going through that breakup—and we all knew it—you didn’t show a crack. Now you’re asking for a therapy session and sitting in my chair, twisting your hands and worrying about this guy. And all I can think is, Finally. I have to assume the sex is off the charts. Is it?”

“Um…” I couldn’t summon the words. “I, it was, um. It was…” I trailed off, because how should I describe what it felt like to have Jace Riggs inside of me? It was unlike anything in the world. “Yes, it is.”

“I figured,” Catherine said. “You’ve finally been banged to Heaven and back, holy angels be praised. I approve of this guy for that alone. Is he hot?”

This time, the answer slipped out easy. “So, so hot,” I said.

“Ha,” Catherine said. She reached over and turned her computer off. “You want my advice? Here it is. Go find your hot sex god and bang him again, and again and again until he can’t stand up. Tell him about what’s-his-name that no one even remembers anymore. If he tries to dump you, get him back. If he tries again, get him back again. Get him back as many times as you have to before your time is up and all you have is regrets.” She picked up her purse and stood. “And next time, just ask me to go for a drink, will you? I’d rather hear the juicy details over a martini.”

I drove home in a daze, and I was already in my pajamas, glass of wine in hand, before I unpacked everything she’d said. What was I doing, booking a therapy session to talk about my new boyfriend? Why hadn’t I just asked Catherine if she wanted to have a drink?

Let’s analyze your intimacy problem, Jace said in my head.

Damn him, was he ever wrong?

Go find your sex god and bang him until he can’t stand up, before all you have is regrets.

I looked down at myself: pajama pants, loose top. I put down my glass of wine and picked up my phone. Where are you? I texted Jace.

Finishing work, he replied. You?

You know where I live, I wrote. I’m home, and I’m naked. Your call.

There was a second of silence. The dots on my phone moved. Stopped. Moved again.

Then the words came up: Stay there

The dots stopped, because he was on his way.

I smiled. Then I dropped my pants to the floor, pulled off my shirt, and stripped off my panties to make it true.